A dinner date. First one since her. I tried to remind myself dates were like sex. You never forget how to do it.

BY THE TIME I finished my shower, Sparrow was already asleep, and not faking it this time. I slid into bed beside her and watched the rise and fall of her chest, but she was far from peaceful. I knew she was keeping a knife under the pillow. It amused and impressed me all at once. Not that she could do anything with that knife if she ever confronted me, but I liked her assertiveness.

She was nothing like her father. Nothing.

My initial expectation after the wedding—that she’d lock herself in a room listening to man-hating Taylor Swift songs on repeat as she cried her eyes out—was proving premature. She might be innocent, but she wasn’t stupid. Hardened by her circumstances and toughened by our neighborhood—Red was no pushover.

I turned my back to her and turned on my bedside lamp, taking my iPad from my nightstand drawer. I went through everything I had to do the next day—a meeting with an asshat who was running for governor and needed to find his bitter stepdaughter and convince her not to talk shit about him; an appointment with a local property tycoon who got into trouble with some Armenian gang members because he didn’t want to pay them protection money.

Fucking Armenians ran the underworld of Boston nowadays, and they were a grim reminder of what could have been mine had my father been more careful with the family business.

The Brennans were infamous in Boston not only as the royal crime family of the city, but also because we’d been smart enough to donate to schools, churches and local charities. We dropped enough cash to have hospital wings, bars and babies named after us. People liked us because once upon a time we’d been generous with our earnings, and we’d kept the city mostly clean of the bad stuff (prostitution and drugs).

Sure, we were criminals, but we kept the innocents’ innocence intact and never hurt a soul who didn’t deserve to feel the wrath of our fists. Loan sharking, extortion, illegal gambling and money laundering. We did it all, and we did it well.

Now, the Armenians and local unorganized gangs were ruling the Boston underworld, and it was a mess. No moral codes, respect or honor. Just a bunch of fucking bullies who got their hands on unregistered guns.

After going over an email from another client and cursing the Armenians again, I put my iPad back in the drawer. Taking one last glance at Red, I noticed her cell on her nightstand was glowing with a new text message. It was four a.m. Who the fuck would text her this late?

My eyes shifted to her face, and back to her cell.

Don’t do this.

Do this.

Don’t do this.

Fuck it.

I’d only seen this woman on a few occasions, when she was just a girl, playing kick the can with the other dirty kids when I was busy scoring chicks, smoking cigarettes and leaning against muscle cars that weren’t even mine. For all I knew, Red could be a snitch. Work with the police. Could be a serial killer.

Ha.

I reached over, my arm stretching above her nose, and picked up her phone.

Then I started digging. Deep.

Sparrow Raynes didn’t have many friends. She’d always been an odd bird, no pun intended, and I guess her social life reflected it.

Based on her incoming messages, a girl named Lucy appeared to be her closest friend. (But not close enough for Sparrow to invite her to the wedding, God forbid.) There was a guy named Boris, her culinary teacher, who’d already been warned off. There was also a girl named Daisy who I remembered from our neighborhood.

What struck me as peculiar was the timing of the most recent conversation with Lucy. The timestamp was after our little encounter earlier, downstairs in the living room. While I was in the shower, Sparrow had been on her phone. In fact, the flashing of her cell phone was Lucy answering Sparrow’s last text.

Lucy: Drinks tomorrow? Usual spot. Just got paid. My treat.

Sparrow: Wish I could. Got a job interview.

Lucy: What? When? Where? Why am I out of the loop all of a sudden? Spill!

Sparrow: It’s for Rouge Bis. That super-expensive French restaurant we always promise we’ll go to and dine and dash.

Lucy: No way. Isn’t the owner Troy Brennan? The only Brennan who isn’t dead or locked up. Haha.

Sparrow: Yeah, they didn’t get to him yet. Hopefully they’ll wait until after my interview. I’ll keep you posted. Wish me luck.

Lucy: Don’t make friends with him. They call him The Fixer for a reason.

Sparrow: I know he’s a fishy guy. He’s my dad’s boss, remember?

Lucy: I remember, I’m just making sure that you do too.